The Only One
by Dreigiau
Summary: When Sherlock jumps from the roof of Barts, John and Mycroft lean on each other to get through the difficult weeks which follow. Their relationship only grows stronger as they support each other, but can they also cope with the Consulting Detective's return?
1. I Will Linger On Every Word

The sound of Mycroft's personal mobile cut through the room, startling him. His work phone had been ringing all day, but the lighter tone of his personal mobile had not sounded once. He held up a hand to silence the man who was talking to him before accepting the call and pressing the phone to his ear.

"Hello," he greeted shortly.

"Mycroft?" John's voice was shaking. "They're done questioning me. But they won't let me leave the Yard without someone with me. When you've got time-"

"I'll be there in ten minutes," Mycroft assured him immediately. "See you soon."

"Yeah, thanks." Mycroft could hear the tears in John's voice, and was very much of the opinion that he could not get to the Yard quickly enough. As he hung up he glanced to Anthea, who nodded.

"Everything is under control," she told him, falling into step beside him as he started towards the lift, entirely ignoring the man who he had been talking to before the call. "I shall call you should anything arise."

The Yard was full of its usual bustle as Mycroft stepped inside, just under ten minutes after hanging up the phone with John. He strode purposefully through the building, aware that no one would question him so long as he looked as though he knew where he was going.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade," he called, as a face that he recognised came into view. The DI was standing with another man, also a DI, leaning against the wall of the corridor. He was clearly both exhausted and devastated, and looked pained when he glanced up to see Mycroft.

"Mr. Holmes," he replied, drawing himself up a little. "I-I'm sorry, about Sherlock. Is there something I can help you with?"

"It's is quite alright, Detective Inspector. You have prevented my brother from meeting a similar end to this many times over, you hold no blame for this situation. I am looking for John," Mycroft told him.

"Right, of course. I- I don't actually know," Lestrade started, slumping back against the wall. The other DI squeezed his shoulder for a moment before turning to Mycroft.

"He's up by the front desk, Sergeant Hall's keeping an eye on him," he told the politician. "They'll let you take him home, so long as he knows you." Mycroft nodded his thanks, making a mental note to make sure that neither of them faced repercussions within their work for Sherlock or Moriarty's actions. He strode back through the Yard to the front desk, asking a few brief questions which saw him pointed to a door nearby.

John was slumped in a chair, cradling a cooling cup of over sweet tea which he had not shown any interest in drinking. He glanced up when the door opened, standing as soon as he recognised Mycroft before pausing and pushing the mug onto the desk in the room. Mycroft opened his arms, and John stepped forwards into the embrace, shutting his eyes and burying his face against the taller man's chest.

Mycroft wrapped his arms tightly around John's upper back and held on as the other man shook against him.

"Where do you want to go?" Mycroft asked, once John had quieted, and seemed in a state to listen.

"I can't go back to Baker Street," John said into his suit jacket. "Not yet. Can I stay with you?"

"Of course," Mycroft replied immediately. "Come, I have a car waiting."

They did not talk during the fifteen minutes that it took for the driver to get them back to Mycroft's house. Mycroft left his hand on the seat between them, and John clung to it as though he would lose touch with reality if he did not hold on.

They had to let go as they climbed out of the car, and neither of them sought to remake the connection as they made their way to the front door and inside the house. Mycroft could read a mix of emotions in the tense line of John's shoulders, and he did not like a single one of them. Guilt, anger, shock and most clearly, pain.

"What do you need?" Mycroft asked quietly, and John barked a short, startled laugh in reply, though there was no humour behind it.

"I should be asking you. You've just- your brother," John said brokenly. Mycroft reached for him again, dropping his arm when John stepped away.

"John." Mycroft waited for the shorter man to look at him before continuing. "What do you need?"

"I don't- I don't know." John's voice was quiet. "I want him back."

"I know."

They stood silently for a few long moments, before John shook himself slightly, looking back up at Mycroft.

"I want to go to bed. I want to fall asleep and pray that this will all have been some sort of hideous nightmare."

It was entirely illogical. It was not an outcome that was possible. And yet, Mycroft could entirely understand what it was that John wanted, and why. He nodded, reaching out for John's hand, and together they made their way upstairs.

They changed into their pyjamas in silence. Mycroft turned off the lights while John drew the curtains. Together they crawled under the duvet and curled together in the middle of the mattress. John tucked his head in under Mycroft's chin, pressing his face into the other man's chest. Mycroft hooked his arm around John's back.

"I'm sorry," John whispered into the darkness of the room. "I left him alone, I didn't stop him." Mycroft rubbed his back in the following silence, unsure as to how to reply as John's shoulders started to shake with first gentle sobs, then more violently. "I should have been there. I should have stayed with him. I'm sorry." John continued to mumble apologies and shake for the following few minutes, gradually growing quieter as he succumbed to exhaustion.

Once he was sure that John was asleep, Mycroft wiped the tears which had gathered silently in his own eyes before shifting so that he could brush a brief kiss to the top of John's head.

"It's not your fault," Mycroft whispered. "I am sorry."


	2. They Say All Things Heal With Time

The funeral was a small affair. John stood at the front beside Greg and said not a single word throughout. Mycroft stood between his parents on the other side of the small church, said a few words, and did not shed a single tear. His mother sobbed against his shoulder, and he stole an occasional glance at John.

John had tears in his eyes, though none had fallen. He was standing to attention, as he had been since the beginning, his eyes on the coffin. Mycroft was not used to guilt, but for a moment it threatened to overwhelm him as he watched John struggle to maintain his composure.

Mycroft had suggested, while they prepared for the funeral, that they stand together. John had not met the rest of the Holmes family before, and had quietly informed Mycroft that he did not want the funeral to be the first time that he met them. He had elected instead to stand with Greg, Mrs. Hudson and the few other people who had felt they could call Sherlock Holmes a friend.

As they all filed out of the small church at the end of the service, Mycroft caught sight of John standing with Greg, over by the gate, away from the knot of Holmes'.

"A moment, Mummy. I shall meet you at the car," Mycroft said, detangling himself from his mother's grip and striding over towards the two men. "John, Detective Inspector," he greeted quietly, resting a hand on John's shoulder. John leant into the touch, not looking up.

"Greg's going to take me home," John said quietly. "I just-" He gestures towards where Mycroft's family were filtering towards the car park. "I can't."

Mycroft nodded, squeezing the hand on John's shoulder gently. "Very well. I shall not stay late. See you this evening. Detective Inspector Lestrade." He removed his hand from John's shoulder and held it out. Greg shook it briefly.

"It was a lovely service," the policeman said. "Sherlock would have hated it."

Mycroft's smile was small, but genuine. "Oh, most certainly. He would have complained from beginning to end."

Mycroft watched them to Greg's car. John was leaning heavily on the cane which they had had to remove from storage. Mycroft turned back towards his family. He slid into the seat beside his mother, allowing her to take his hand.

"Sherlock's friends aren't coming?" she asked.

"I believe that John is finding it all rather too much, Mummy," Mycroft replied. "The Detective Inspector has offered to take him home, as he is in no condition to drive."

"Oh the poor dears. And I never did get to meet them. I'm always saying you boys should bring your friends to visit," she scolded softly.

"Yes, Mummy. Perhaps at a later date," Mycroft suggested.

Despite his wish to get home as soon as possible, it was well into the evening before Mycroft saw off the last of his family and was able to return to his flat. He went straight to his room, stripping out of his suit and changing into pyjamas. Warm, comfortable and as far removed as possible from the uptight formality of his suits.

He found John lying on the sofa. Without a word he settled himself over the other man. He tucked his head under John's chin, slotted their legs together, and the tension in his shoulders only eased when John wrapped an arm around him.

Few words were spoken, and together they lay, lost in their thoughts, until John quietly suggested the bed would be a more comfortable option.


	3. Can't Bear to See You Go

The small, underground office was not the usual space in which Mycroft would choose to work. He preferred a room with a window, though he rarely worked in one due to the security risk which it could pose. Still, there was something oppressive about the fact that it was underground, that walking out of the door would lead him to a lift which would take him to the surface, rather than a corridor filled with natural light.

Otherwise, the office was not dissimilar to the one he spent the majority of his working time in. He sat at a heavy wooden desk, surrounded by organised piles of files and papers. The main difference from his usual workspace was the bed which sat against the wall on the far side of the room. A person lay upon it, hooked up to machines which beeped and whirred quietly, sustaining the life which the body was not able to cling to on its own.

Mycroft mostly ignored the presence of the unconscious body in his work space, as well as the people who bustled in and out of the room, checking on the body and the machines around it. He read files, filled out the required paperwork, replied to emails and took calls as he usually would. It was not until his phone buzzed, reminding him that he had half an hour until a meeting, that he moved from the desk. He took a moment to stretch out his arms and back, rolling his shoulders to loosen the muscles before crossing the room.

He settled into the chair beside the bed. It was a comfortable armchair, rather than the uncomfortable, plastic kind which would have been found in a hospital. That said, nothing about the set up was common to that which would be found in any medical facility.

Mycroft leant back in the chair, considering the figure on the bed silently. The heartbeat monitor showed a steady, consistent beat, one which Mycroft had found himself checking several times over the course of the morning.

His mobile vibrated again, and he flicked open the text message which had arrived, sighing as he read the contents and slipping the phone back into his pocket without replying. He was good at lying. It was, in fact, a large part of his job. He lied often, and he lied well. And most of the time it did not bother him in the slightest.

But this, this was different. Lying to John Watson was not lying to a politician. If events unfolded as he hoped, and as he expected, lying to John Watson was going to get him into a lot of trouble. It was quite possibly going to endanger the relationship he had spent so many months cultivating with the other man. It was certainly going to set back the months that they had both spent coming to trust each other.

"He needs you to wake up," Mycroft murmured after a moment's pause, reaching out to brush the curls away from Sherlock's forehead. "He is mourning you, and I can not tell him you live, not when I am not certain that you will. I can not bear to break his heart again, brother mine."

There was no reply from the unconscious form on the bed, and Mycroft sighed again, squeezing his brother's hand briefly.

"I have a meeting, I shall be back this evening," he informed Sherlock. "It has been five weeks, do try and pull yourself together."

With that he stood from the armchair, collecting his coat and umbrella from the back of the door and leaving the room without a glance back. He had a meeting to get to, and he was well aware that there were several well trained people monitoring Sherlock's state. He would be informed immediately should anything change, for better or for worse.


End file.
